


Canem Vitae

by whitchry9



Series: Carpe Diem [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dog - Freeform, Epilepsy, Gen, Sass, Seizure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So what does Gladstone have to say about her boys? The adventures of Sherlock and John from Gladstone's point of view. <br/>Will be ongoing as the series continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tolle Rota I

Gladstone was not amused.

Generally, she was pretty easy going, because really, she had to be to deal with her annoying human. Honestly, the man did dangerous stunts for a living, and Gladstone just had to deal with that. Needless to say, she wasn't pleased with it, but she tolerated it, as long as he was safe every time before It happened.

And thanks to her, he usually was.

Now John, that man was much more sensible. From what Gladstone came to understand, he was a doctor, which was like a vet, but for people. John was much more sensible, not rushing headfirst into danger like a certain someone else Gladstone knew, instead liking to think things over, and perhaps even come up with a plan before just... doing whatever it was Sherlock tended to do, dragging Gladstone on her leash behind him.

 

Gladstone had been trained to wear her vest, and yet Sherlock, being the strange man that he was, chose not to have her wear it. She listened to him explain it to John (after he found out of course, but that was an entirely different story) and believed it had something to do with a disguise.

Or perhaps not, since she was a little distracted at the time with It oncoming.

But she wasn't wearing it today, which probably worked in their favour, since the whole kidnapping thing.

But that's not even the reason she was unamused. Admittedly, it was a contributing factor, but the main reason was still to come.

But back to the kidnapping.

 

It had just finished, and Sherlock was napping in his bed, one hand clutching at Gladstone's fur, when she heard the sound. Footsteps, coming up the stairs.

Now, this was Mrs Hudson day, when the lovely old lady came over to chat with John about various things, but Gladstone knew what her footsteps sounded like on the stairs, sort of hesitant, like she wasn't sure what she would find, and those definitely weren't hers. They were much heavier, and even... oh, two sets. What two people would be coming to visit John? Or Sherlock.

Gladstone supposed they could be clients, but Sherlock had moaned only that morning about nothing being on the website.

 

Gladstone heard John speaking in the kitchen, greeting Mrs Hudson. _No, no, John, it's not her._ There was a thump, and Gladstone could tell that something had gone very, very wrong.

 

Sherlock awoke, not entirely, but must have heard the thump that was likely John hitting the ground, and something in his head had noticed.

He threw himself out of bed, calling for his friend. “John?”

But it was too soon after It happened, and he slumped back to the floor. It looked like it hurt.

Gladstone sighed at him. Didn't he know this was only going to draw attention to him?

Shortly after the feet approached Sherlock's door and entered.

Gladstone stood between Sherlock and the man, growling at the intruder. He smelled wrong and was going to do something to Sherlock.

The man growled back at her. What nerve.

The other man was behind him.

 

 

“Is he dead?” one said finally. “Looks like crap.”

The other made a grunting noise. “I dunno.”

The first one shuffled closer to Sherlock and kicked him gently in the side. Gladstone barked at him. _How dare he?_

He only sneered at her as the first one noted “He's still breathing.” _Well, of course he is. He's not dead stupid,_ Gladstone noted bitterly.

The other one grunted. “Alright. Just throw him in as is. And bring the bloody dog. All we need is for it to make a ridiculous amount of noise cause his owner's gone.”

If Gladstone could have spoken, she would have replied with an unbelievable amount of sass. Who did these men think they were?

Fine, if they wanted to take her, let them. They'd be the ones suffering in the end, she would make sure of that.


	2. Tolle Rota II

So the one man carted Sherlock down the stairs after heaving him into his arms, the other clipping Gladstone's leash on and dragging her behind him as he picked up John from the kitchen, the wound on his head bleeding where he must have been hit.

_Oh, I'm not even your biggest problem. You'll have to deal with Sherlock when he finds out you've hurt his John._

Her boys were deposited in a van, and one of the men climbed in the back with them as the other climbed in the front and began to drive.

Gladstone stood protectively next to Sherlock, who was occasionally twitching, like he wanted to move, but knew he shouldn't.

 _Oh, that clever boy._ Gladstone admired his courage when she realized what he was doing. He wasn't still unconscious, but just pretending to be. That was why he wasn't awoken when he was kicked, or thrown into a van. Her boy was clever, that was for sure.

 

Gladstone was slightly relieved about that for a few minutes, until the man started wondering if either of them were going to wake up, and then drugged John. Sherlock carried on the ruse though, until they were laid side by side on the grass in the middle of nowhere and the van drove away.

Then he perked up immediately, told Gladstone to watch John (when she just wanted to stay with both her boys), and went off inside an ancient barn that looked very unsafe.

 

So she helped lift John into the truck, and that was all fine and good, until she realized Sherlock intended to drive the stupid thing back to civilization. She made sure to inform him she wasn't pleased about that, but did understand the reasoning behind it. Sherlock was worried about John, just as she was worried about both of them. So she relented, and helped lift John, because Sherlock was about as big as a string bean, and looked like if you hugged him you'd get a paper cut.

 

But back to the reason she was not amused. Very not amused.

Because her stupid human was currently driving a truck, despite the fact that she had told him nearly ten minutes ago to stop, because It was coming. And she couldn't even appeal to John for help, because that man was sleeping, but it wasn't the right kind of sleeping, it was off somehow.

Gladstone pawed at him again.

“Yes, alright,” he said, in a very huffy voice, which she found a bit rude.

The truck slowed, and stopped, and Sherlock unbuckled his seat belt (which Gladstone forced him to put on before driving, hovering over the gas pedal refusing to move) and opening up the door.

Gladstone knew what he was doing, getting to some place where there was more space for It to happen than the truck. (There had been that whole aeroplane incident, which just couldn't be helped.)

Except he didn't make it to the grass beside the road, just sort of fell out of the truck like his foot had gotten stuck in the seat belt (that had happened before, and Gladstone had to admit it was funny, just like John did, managing to ask if Sherlock was okay before dissolving into giggles) except it hadn't. It had started.

And her stupid human was right in the middle of the road.

Gladstone was _very_ not amused now.

She did was she was trained to do, nudge him onto his side, and cushion his head with whatever she could find, in this case, being her. It hurt her a bit, but she always knew that he didn't mean it, and it wasn't his fault.

And besides. It was her job. And despite all the stupid things the man did, making strange smells in the flat with his cups of strange liquids, sometimes falling off buildings, leaving her pacing at the edge whining at him, she really did love him.

And finally, It ended, and he stopped.

Gladstone slunk out from underneath him and examined his face, sticking hers in his. His breath was warm on her face, and that was satisfying.

She peered back in the truck for a second, John still slumped in his seat, not-quite-sleeping, and she was content that he was just fine. John was very important to Sherlock, and she was just about as protective of him as she was of Sherlock.

 

She returned to sitting next to Sherlock, waiting patiently for him to stir so she could nudge him awake and back into the truck, where it was safer.

She didn't like that he was on the road.

As if some greater dog in the sky had heard her thoughts and decided It (twice) wasn't enough for one day, Gladstone's ear picked up a sound in the distance.

A lorry was in the distance, heading down the road towards Sherlock.

Oh this day was just getting better and better.


	3. Tolle Rota III

Gladstone nudged Sherlock once more (he didn't stir) before sprinting down the road towards the truck, barking as loudly as she could.

She really wasn't big enough for the driver to see, but at least she was light enough that she didn't blend into the road. Gladstone was beginning to get worried, the truck bearing down on her, seemingly oblivious, when it finally squealed its brakes and skidded to a stop, swerving onto the other side of the road around her, coming to a stop just feet from her.

She was pleased. Finally something was going right.

She barked at the lorry, until a man got out.

“Bloody hell, what were you doin' in the middle of the road, hey bud?”

Gladstone barked again. She was not a 'bud'.

She trotted back to where Sherlock was, the man doing a double take before jogging behind her.

Gladstone sat down next to Sherlock, giving the man a warning growl as he knelt down next to him.

“S'alright,” he said to her reassuringly. She was not reassured. “I'm not gonna hurt him.”

Gladstone barked at him, and hopped up into the truck, barking again.

The man looked at John, and then back to Sherlock.

“Bloody hell,” the man said again. Gladstone was irked. Was that all that consisted of his vocabulary?

She nudged Sherlock's arm towards the man, the arm that the other men had tugged at to discover his bracelet. She despised those men.

The man took her hint and examined it.

“Oh,” he exclaimed. “Epilepsy.”

He frowned for a second. “He shouldn't have been drivin' then.”

Gladstone barked at him. Was that really necessary now?

“Oh. Sorry. I'll call an ambulance.”

Gladstone watched carefully as the man pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled 999. She would have done it herself, except she didn't have the dexterity to do it, and besides, those men had taken their phones, so that wasn't even an option at this point. (She'd tried dialling before, but she really needed one of those phones plugged into the wall with the big buttons, like Mrs Hudson had in her flat downstairs. Mobile buttons were too small for her nose.)

“Ten minutes? Alright. Yeah, I'll stay with them. There's a dog here too, really protective of the guy.”

Gladstone couldn't make out what the other person said, but the man looked puzzled.

“Yeah, I guess she is. She's not wearing a vest or anything.”

He listened again.

“I don't know who that it. He could be him I suppose.”

Gladstone realized what was going on. There were only so many epileptic men in London that fit Sherlock's description that had a dog, and an army doctor that trailed along with him. He'd been to hospital enough that there was probably some sort of alert attached to his name.

She hoped that meant the other man would show up, the nice Detective Inspector. He was good. He knew about It, and was wonderful. He cared for Sherlock, just like John did.

The man hung up the phone and looked at Gladstone.

“There's an ambulance comin', alright?”

She barked once, more kindly now, as thanks.

 

Gladstone was pretty good at telling time, and indeed like the man said, an ambulance arrived ten minutes later. Sherlock had begun to stir slightly at that point, but still she knew he wasn't going to wake up for a bit.

 

Paramedics had just jumped out, bags over their shoulders and a gurney in tow when a second ambulance arrived.

Gladstone focused her attention on the two men jogging towards her and Sherlock.

She gave them a warning growl to be careful before backing up to let them take care of him.

One of the men started sticking things to Sherlock, looking in his eyes, talking loudly to him, while the other pulled something out of his jacket.

It was a photo, Gladstone realized, as he compared the photo to Sherlock.

“Call them,” the one man said.

The other man nodded in return as the first one returned to tending to Sherlock.

He pulled a radio out of his waistband. “It's Sherlock Holmes,” he confirmed.

They wrapped something around Sherlock's neck, and scooped him up onto a stretcher on a board.


	4. Tolle Rota IV

A police car arrived, sirens doing that funny thing where the sound changed before they stopped.

Her favourite DI got out and jogged over to Sherlock.

“Good girl,” he told her, scratching her head.

Gladstone wagged her tail. Yes, this man was here, and he would look after Sherlock. She hopped in the truck to supervise the treatment of John. Sherlock would want it like that.

They scooped John up similarly, putting him on a stretcher and rolling him around the car to near where Sherlock was. Gladstone sat over John, watching what the other men did. They put a mask on his face, and poked his arms with things that looked like they hurt, and Gladstone wanted to protest, but she knew they were only trying to help, in their so very human ways.

There was a noise behind her, and Gladstone looked over to see Sherlock mostly awake, fighting the belts holding him to the stretcher.

“Mr Holmes, stop,” a paramedic pleaded. “We're trying to help you.”

Sherlock made a displeased noise.

“Get off of me,” he snapped. “I'm fine. I don't need this. Stop being ridiculous.”

Sherlock managed to get the buckles undone, and pulled the thing off from around his neck. He looked around.

“John?” he called, struggling to stand up.

Gladstone barked. _Over here you idiot._

Sherlock turned to look, and nearly sagged with relief. Or perhaps that was from It. Gladstone couldn't tell.

“He was drugged,” he called more weakly.

He stumbled, and hands led him back to the stretcher.

“I'm fine,” he snapped.

“Sherlock!” a voice bellowed.

Ah yes, her lovely DI would handle this.

Sherlock groaned. “A little bit late Detective Inspector,” he said, perhaps a tad bitterly.

Lestrade smirked at him. “You seemed to do fine on your own. Now lay down. You just had a seizure, and somehow ended up face first in the road. I know you don't want to go to the hospital, but John is going, and this way you get there with him.”

 

Sherlock scowled, but Gladstone was pleased to note he allowed himself to be strapped back down. He insisted the stretcher be raised to a sitting position, and he only glared at Lestrade as yet another shock blanket was draped over him.

Gladstone returned to his side, now that she knew John was in good hands. She had her own human to take care of.

There was more talking, Sherlock being irritated about It happening for the second time in a day, blaming the stress of being kidnapped. Gladstone would agree.

 

Sherlock was loaded in one of the ambulances. Gladstone hopped in behind him, and Lestrade climbed in as well.

Sherlock frowned. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Taking care of you of course. John's still unconscious and I can trust him to behave on his own. You? Nope.”

Gladstone couldn't help but agree, and nuzzled the DI's leg affectionately.

 

Sherlock grumbled, but stopped as Gladstone let him stroke her until he drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

They gave Sherlock medicine in the ambulance, and he slept until later that night, a fact about which Gladstone was relieved. He was usually pretty miserable after It happened more than once in a day.

When he did awaken, John was already up and eating, and Lestrade was camped out in their room, reading a crinkly paper.

He and Lestrade started bantering back and forth, but she'd had a long day and wasn't really listening.

“...Bet Gladstone didn't like that.”

Gladstone perked up. Certainly whatever it was they were talking about, she most likely didn't approve of it. She started listening after that.

Sherlock made a non committal noise in response.

“A truck? Sherlock, were you driving?” John demanded.

Sherlock only shrugged. “It was necessary. You were unconscious, and could have been for who knows how much longer, bleeding from a head wound of unknown origin, and besides, I pulled over before I had the seizure. It was fine.”

John gaped. “Seizure? Sherlock!”

“Oh, did I say seizure? I meant-”

“Shut it,” John ordered.

“Necessary,” Sherlock muttered.

Gladstone only sighed. She was tired of settling argument between them.

She looked to Lestrade.

 _You're on this one,_ she told him.


	5. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Gladstone first met Sherlock.

Gladstone spent far more than her fair share of time worrying.

After all, what were dogs supposed to worry about?

But after she got Sherlock, who frankly was sometimes more work than he was worth, Gladstone worried almost constantly. Honestly, she was going to lose her fur at a young age because of him.

 

Because there was that one whole day when Sherlock was sick, and couldn't keep his meds down, and everything about him was just _wrong,_ and Gladstone hadn't noticed It coming because John had taken her outside right at the time she should have been noticing, and she felt bad for the rest of the day. Not to mention It happened when Sherlock was on the couch, while she was trying to sit on it with him, so she was rudely pushed off. She supposed it was punishment. It only got better after John stuck needles in him, the first of which came out when It happened, and she didn't know. Honestly, after that she worried if the day could get any worse, which of course, was a yes.

Because It happened again. At least this time the thing in Sherlock's arm stayed in, thanks to John using about a mountain of tape that would very much hurt to remove later on (which she still remembers because of the awful noises Sherlock made as he did it.) Still, it was an exhausting day for her, and she wasn't even the one It was happening to, so she couldn't even imagine how Sherlock was taking the whole thing. Gladstone figured he'd be miserable for the rest of the week. (He was.)

But that day finally came to an end, and Sherlock slowly returned to normal, no longer so _wrong_ that it hurt her to look at him.

She slept well that night.

 

Of course, there was that time when she was kidnapped, and then the time where they were both kidnapped (but not John, because that was another time entirely), and of course there was the aeroplane incident (although she did meet a very nice man who smelled like another dog, and knew just where to scratch her belly), and the time John had carried Sherlock, which had resulted in her poor paws getting all frostbitten, and then John had gotten those awful boots (which mysteriously disappeared), and then finally, there was the time when It didn't even happen to Sherlock, but to _John,_ and the whole thing made both of them uneasy.

There were just so many times that Sherlock had worried her.

And she could only assume that it would continue like this.

She was definitely going to lose her fur soon.

 

Oh, but the first time they met, she just knew that he would be hers.

Because he was clever and annoying and had spotted her right away, despite her almost hiding. And he talked to her like she was clever too, not like some of the other people did, like she was a baby of all things. Excuse them, but no. Who was the one who could detect when It would happen after all? Not you people.

By the end of that day, it was pretty much decided that Gladstone would be going home with Sherlock, but she still gave him a test ride one day to make sure.

Sherlock told her a lot of things, like how he used to be able to tell when It would come, but then he fell off a building and broke his arm, and now he couldn't. He also told her about John, his flatmate who he hadn't told yet. Gladstone sniffed disapprovingly at that point, and he only glared at her.

“I know,” he said simply. “But it's just hard.”

He sighed, rubbing his hand through her fur.

She waited patiently for him to find the words. Humans were funny like that. So many words to choose from, so many wonderful things to say, and yet so many of them limited themselves. Sherlock wasn't like that though, and it was just another thing she loved about him.

“When I was younger, It would happen up to ten times a day, every day. And Mummy would never let me do anything, because she was always so afraid. And then after she died, Mycroft took over that role.”

Gladstone growled in sympathy. She'd gathered that Sherlock and his brother didn't get along, and by the sounds of it, wouldn't like him much. (When she did finally meet him, she had to admit Sherlock had exaggerated some aspects of his personality, but had to agree she wasn't fond of him. What sort of man didn't like dogs?)

“And then they finally got the meds right, after so many years, and it was so exciting.”

Gladstone cocked her head at him, imploring him to continue.

“Except Mycroft was all like 'No, Sherlock, you can't learn to drive ever, and you're not allowed to do experiments with time sensitive chemicals, because what on Earth would happen if you missed the window or something because It happened...' and it was _so_ irritating.” (When Gladstone met Mycroft, she had to admit that impersonation was spot on. It was another thing Sherlock was good at, pretending to be someone else. Sometimes Gladstone wondered if she ever saw the real Sherlock.)

Sherlock sighed again.

“And then there was the whole drugs thing, which I suppose was just to prove him wrong, which obviously did not go as planned.”

Gladstone whined. She didn't like the sound of that.

Sherlock scratched her ears. “It's alright. I'll have to tell you about that some time.”

He was silent for a while, and Gladstone just enjoyed the ear scratching.

“I suppose I just don't want John to find out. He's a doctor, so he'd be all sort of protective, and that really doesn't fit with The Work.”

Gladstone could hear the importance of those words. _The Work._

“Thankfully, I've got you for that now.”

Gladstone liked that answer.

They sat together for a while, until Gladstone felt It. It was coming.

She pawed at him and whined, just like she was taught.

“What?” Sherlock asked her, irritated.

 _Really?_ She sat there and cocked her head at him, looking incredulous. (As much as a dog could anyway.)

“Oh,” he breathed.

_Finally got it? You're a bit daft for someone so clever._

He deflated, his previous contentment gone with that news.

She nudged him.

“How long have I got?”

Gladstone wasn't sure. A couple of minutes?

Sherlock seemed to understand this.

“Alright. The bed then, I suppose.”

Gladstone trailed behind Sherlock as he went to the bedroom.

John was at work, and they were alone in the flat. Sherlock had made sure that Gladstone could test him out on days that his flatmate wasn't home.

Sherlock laid down in his bed, arms sprawled across it like a giant bird. Except he wasn't very bird like. Gladstone figured Sherlock was more like a cat, but a cat that she liked. Some cats just weren't likeable, like the one she could smell on the carpet downstairs, from Mrs Hudson's friend. She had a cat that wasn't pleasant.

Sherlock waited, and waited.

It must have been 15 minutes before It started, first with Sherlock stiffening, then his limbs jerking uncontrollably.

Gladstone nudged Sherlock onto his side to be safe.

She stayed with him until It finished, and then as he slept. And she made sure to be right by his side as he woke up, confused, disoriented, and still somewhat angry.

But not at her. He made that clear.

“Thank you,” he whispered to her, kneading his hand in her fur.

 

She moved in with him after that. She'd found herself a keeper.


End file.
